


"Feel My Touch...

by writingramblr



Category: Black Swan (2010), Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Black Swan - Freeform, Blood and Violence, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Crossover, Disturbing Themes, Eating Disorders, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Masturbation, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings, Plot Twists, Seduction, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Thoughts, bates motel vibes literally, credence is sweet and precious and needs love, graves is kind of a jerk, this might be sexual harassment to a point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 11:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10639269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr
Summary: ...Respond to it."[the black swan AU that ends with fluff, spoilers]





	

**Author's Note:**

> look I wanted a ballet au that's complete, and also has a happy ending so yeah here i am, filling my own prompt.

As he stood in front of the cast list, Credence couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. 

His name wasn’t even on there, technically. 

He was a side note, an afterthought.

An understudy.

He wasn’t a  _ stormer _ , his mother would have done that. His mother, former prima ballerina of the Macusa International Ballet Company, would have  _ storm _ ed into Director Graves’ office and demanded an explanation. He was shaky, and felt as if he hadn’t eaten in days, though ma had made him a delicious vegetarian lasagna the night before, and he had been given leftovers to bring to have after class. But he did allow a couple tears to escape him, before he turned away, and headed for practice.

He never made eye contact in class, none of the other students cared, mainly because when he, a Barebone, didn’t turn out to be  _ just like _ his mother, they avoided him. They saw competition, but also weakness. Because there was not much more he could do.

“Attack it, attack it, go on, spin out. Stop, stop. Try again.”

Credence kept going, and going, until he thought his vision was giving out, or at least going grey, and narrowing to a point. When he looked in the mirror, he couldn’t see himself, he saw a haze of black and flashes of white. There was a creature with fangs and glowing red eyes coming up behind him, and he turned away, squeezing his eyes shut, certain he was losing his mind. Instead of claws, a hand, warm and strong landed on his shoulder, and it was the Director’s voice he heard,

“Barebone. Stay after class.”

He opened his eyes, choking on a gasp, but the man had moved away, and was calling out new positions, snapping his fingers, tapping his cane on the wood floor, echoing around the room. He didn’t need the cane to walk, it was merely for emphasis and correction, if someone’s posture was off, he’d use the cane to direct them.

But the man had _ touched  _ him, and almost yanked him out of his daydreaming.

The rest of practice went by in a blur, and it wasn’t until everyone was filtering out and he was left alone at the barre, stretching and trying to pretend he didn’t feel as if he’d been betrayed.

“Going to explain why you’ve been a blubbering mess all day?”

The director’s voice wasn’t his demanding teacher tone, it was more like being chastised, by some sort of family figure.

Credence fought the shiver as it rolled down his spine.

“Sir, I haven’t meant to. I’m merely disappointed you didn’t see fit to give me a role.”

“You didn’t prove to me you deserved one. What, did you expect I’d grant you the lead male part because of your last name?”

The director wasn’t sneering, but he might as well have been. Cold indifference on his face was just as painful as being slapped by ma.

Credence swallowed, and dropped his gaze, as the floor was much safer to stare at. Safer than the stern lines of the man’s handsome face. A face that he was seeing much too often in his dreams. Footsteps padded closer, and the next thing he knew, a strong hand was under his chin, forcing him to look up at the director.

“Why don’t you try, show me that you  _ want  _ it.”

Credence didn’t know what to say, how to say ‘ **no** ,’ not when it was Director Graves asking. So he stepped away from the barre, the second he was freed, and tried to run through the steps, the main dance for the Prince, and he could only feel his own heartbeat thundering in his ears as he moved. When it came to an end, he was panting, sweat making his hair stick to his face, itch on the back of his neck and over his forehead, as he turned to see the Director shaking his head.

“What I see is a poor sad scared little boy who’s riding on his mommy’s coat tails. You need to break away. Become your own person Barebone, or you’ll never get anything you want.”

That was like a slap in the face.

Credence‘s eyes stung with sweat, but it might as well have been tears, as he hung his head, and stared at his feet. Why did he even bother? Would it matter if he showed up tomorrow? Maybe he should just let the nightmares consume him.

“You’re extremely high strung, wound up. You need to relax. You need to be able to focus.”

The director wasn’t speaking above a whisper, a church voice, but Credence was attuned to every word, and the closer the man got, the more he wanted to shrink away, to hide.

The mirror wasn’t going to open up and swallow him.

“Are you listening?”

He nodded.

The director was right in front of him, the hand not holding his cane was suddenly sliding around Credence’s waist, pulling him flush to the man’s body, stealing his breath from his lungs.

“To play the prince, you must follow your own steps, and guide the swan princess. You have potential Barebone, but you’re holding  _ yourself _ back. Go home, and take care of yourself...hmm? Three times tonight. That’s your homework.”   
Credence could still feel the man’s hand burning into his lower back, fingers splayed on his body, heat seeping through his leotard. But the director was halfway across the room now, and Credence blinked down at himself, realizing with a flush of shame he was half hard, his groin obscenely obvious under the thin fabric.

He ran.

He didn’t even stop to go shower in the locker rooms, he went straight for the bus stop, and ended up home twenty minutes early. Ma wasn’t back yet from the library, she worked there almost every day to keep herself busy. She’d had a career ending injury, and then had him, and decided to retire publicly.

She still blamed him, nearly every day for it, though he had not chosen to be born, much less be forced to finish her life as a ballerina, as she did, live through him vicariously.

He remembered as he began to peel off his sweaty leotard that he’d skipped his lunch, and resolved to have it when he got finished and dried. Under the warm spray of the shower, he allowed his hands to graze over himself, tracing the places he’d seen the man looking, and recalling how it had felt to simply be touched, though it had been more like manhandling. But not rough or painful like when ma hit him.

That sort of attack never made him hard. 

Verbal rebukes from the director were nothing compared to ma’s harsh words. 

He took his cock in hand slowly, and it only took a moment of stroking to get fully hard, the next few seconds spent concentrating on the head, flushed and dark, it would have been dripping with pre if he’d not been soaked by the water. He pressed his forehead against the cool tiles, and panted as he moved his hand faster, images flashing through his mind, the director touching him more intimately, guiding him, rubbing his hands over Credence’s chest, making his nipples harden under his leotard, imagining the man palming him in front of the class, forcing him to his knees, painting his face and telling him he belonged to him, to the company, he was nothing, nothing without ballet, and the  _ director’s _ guidance.

Credence came with a low moan, fucking into his fist, spurting his release onto the wall and spilling onto the tiles, hips thrusting through his aftershocks, until it was actually painful to keep touching himself.

He cleaned himself off and ensured that he’d washed it all down the drain before shutting the water off and climbing out, drying off carefully, and then dressing, before going out to the kitchen to warm up his leftover food.

By now, ma should be well on her way home, and he sighed, shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth.

The door slamming open startled him a little, and he looked down, finding his plate empty, just a glass of water beside his hand.

“Hello mother. How was your day?”

“Nevermind my day. What part did you get?”

Credence’s cheeks heated, as his vision began to blur and his voice came out in a croak,

“They haven’t decided for me yet. Right now I’m just an understudy.”

He was expecting the slap, which made his ears ring, but not the cursing.

“You’re fucking pathetic. I give you everything I have, and how do you thank me? By being a failure.” 

He could have lied to her. He could have just said he was playing the prince. Or more realistically, Rothbart. But she would have found out the truth, she would have called the director, checked his story. The punishment for that would have been worse.

“Go to bed, get out of my sight.”

“Yes mother.”

He went to get ready, wiping away his tears, brushing his teeth, and then climbed into bed, huddling under the covers until he could no longer keep his eyes open, around midnight.

She thought he slept all that time. His dreams were filled with frightening images, black feathers, red eyes, and constant fear of being ripped to shreds by such awful things like monsters that lurked just out of his line of sight, hot breath at the back of his neck, and haunting whispers that filled his ears.

Credence jerked awake, and found he was soaked to the bone in sweat, sheets tangled around his legs, as if he’d been kicking, trying to escape the grasp of whatever was hunting him. He was also painfully hard, and he couldn’t imagine why.

But what had the director said?  _ Three  _ times.

He’d done it once in the shower, and that was hours ago now. He only had a few more hours before he would need to be up, and on his way to practice again. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to think of something happy, sexy even, as he put his hand inside his sleep pants, grabbing a hold of his cock. It throbbed against his palm, aided in his strokes by copious pre, he found himself having to fight the urge to moan, stifling the noise barely with his other hand, knuckles caught between his teeth, as he stopped suddenly, and flipped over, in favor of grinding his hips into the bed, his cock now trapped in his pants, the friction better than he could hope to provide with just his hand.

Now he could muffle his sounds with his pillow, face pressed down into it as he chased the feeling, getter closer and closer with every passing second. His thighs were aching, and his muscles began to burn like they did during a rigorous practice, and the next thing he knew, white light was exploding behind his eyes, as his orgasm rushed through him, dampening the fabric beneath his cock, and he gasped, flipping over at once, desperate to make sure he didn’t leave a mess on the sheets, for then she would know. She would  _ know _ he’d been abusing himself, and she would be so angry, he was afraid to think about it.

But he had to keep going.

He had  _ one _ more to do.

Usually he never tried to keep touching himself after coming, the pain keeping him from trying more, so when he wrapped a hand around his softening length, he couldn’t help whimpering. It was so sensitive, it almost hurt too badly to keep it up. So he moved his grip, shifted his hands down to caress his sack, and when that grew painful, he dipped lower, daringly pressing and rubbing his fingertip over his quivering hole, mindful that it wouldn’t be good to do too much. He might ruin himself for life, sodomizing himself with his own hand.

It didn’t hurt, and he slowly worked a finger inside, only a knuckle at a time, until he had one whole finger lodged up his ass, and he bent it slightly, grazing right over something that made him twitch, and his cock attempted to reharden.

It actually felt good, but it was tight, and dry, and not enough.

Credence put his other hand to his lips, trying not to imagine what it might be like to be touched there, to be kissed by who he really wanted, which was the director, wrong as it was, and then slid two fingers into his mouth, wetting them thoroughly with saliva, before carefully withdrawing them, and removing his other hand, to replace it with his dripping fingers.

He touched over his cock cautiously, testing how it felt, as he worked his two wet fingers inside his hole, seeking out that spot that had felt good.

His cock had recovered fully now, and was actually drooling against his sleepshirt, mortifying him, as it would surely show, unless he could secretly wash it, or spill something else on it to hide his own semen.

Credence could feel something like pleasure building up in his abdomen, as he tugged a hand over his cock and continued to massage his fingers in his ass, he found himself mindlessly humping up, against the air, chasing the feeling once more.

Surely it would kill him to come again, but he couldn’t stop, not now when he’d discovered something that felt so wonderful. His toes began to curl and his thighs tensed, as his jaw slackened, and he tightened his hand around his cock, dragging up to the head of it, letting his climax wash over him. He was so delirious from the two orgasms so close together he didn’t even notice his bedroom door opening, and barely had time to withdraw his hand and pull his pants over himself before she was upon him, belt raised in hand, cracking down over his knuckles.

“You disgusting piece of filth. Self abuse is  _ not allowed in this house _ ! You’ll go straight to hell for this if you don’t repent. I come to tell you I’ve made you a nice breakfast before you have to get ready for practice, and this is what I find? Freak!”

By the time she’d finished with him, and forcibly yanked him out of bed to shove him into the bathroom, hissing at him to clean his miserable body up, and not touch himself again, or she would know, he was trembling, and bruises were already blooming red and purple on his back, shoulders, and his hands were bloody.

The only thing he could do, after he dressed and ate his breakfast in silence, was pull on an old pair of gloves, scratchy and cheap fabric from a secondhand store, and hope he wouldn’t be asked to take his sweater off, as his leotard had short sleeves, and didn’t hide much of the bruising on his back.

He went through the motions of practice in a daze, and merely did his best to keep from just keeling over on the spot. He dimly heard the director tapping his cane, with the beat of the music, and he followed the rhythm until he got a knock against his left calf, and was told that he was falling behind.

“I’m sorry sir.”

“I don’t want apologies, I want  _ results _ .”

Tears stung his eyes, but he simply nodded, and stepped faster, pushing himself to the breaking point, ignoring the roaring in his ears, and the blackness on the edges of his vision. He knew it was just another monster from his dreams, following him into the real world somehow. He didn’t have time to be scared, he didn’t have time to do anything but do the dance perfectly, again, again, aga-

A hand gripped his shoulder, tight enough and fingers dug into a fresh bruise that he cried out, and jerked away.

“Barebone! I’ve been calling your name for five minutes. What’s the matter with you? Didn’t sleep enough?”

His legs refused to hold him, and he collapsed, barely remaining upright by clutching the barre.

“I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid I’m not myself today.”

“Bullshit. You’re never one hundred percent _ present _ . What’s the meaning of this? Why are you dressed like you’re going to the opera, a shitty one, after practice? Take off those gloves, and this hideous excuse of a sweater. You’re going over the final waltz again. No one is here to see you cry, or care.”

Credence sniffled, and then nodded,

“I’m sorry sir.”

“Stop apologizing and give me results. Live up to your name.”

Credence hiccuped on another sob, and then started pulling off the gloves, one finger at a time, until the director grew impatient, and stepped over, crowding him, tugging him to his feet, where he swayed against the man slightly, and he felt both gloves be torn off his hands.

“What’s this?”

Strong warm hands were gripping his own, and a thumb swiped over the back of his knuckles, now purpled, and still bleeding in some spots, with black fuzz from the gloves sticking in the wound. It made them look even worse, like some sort of horrific burn.

“I… tripped.”   
“What are you hiding under here?”

The man tugged open the sweater, exposing his collarbone and shoulder, and hissed under his breath, not with anger, but concern. It was a rare thing, to get the director’s attention in such a manner.

“I didn’t get a part in the production, she was just upset. I had to-”

“Shh-hh. Come, sit down. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

“Please sir! Don’t call her, don’t say anything, she’ll only be angrier.”

His hand shot out to grab the man’s wrist, and his eyes wandered up the man’s arm, which was nearly twice as thick as his own, corded with muscle that he’d probably spent years earning and it was why he could do lifts whereas Credence would only ever be the dancer that was lifted. 

“Barebone… I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to get the first aid kit.”

The man’s eyes were dark, but not cold, and the way he was looking at Credence sent a shiver of something he couldn’t name down his spine.

“Okay.” He whispered. He could trust the director, he could.

The second the room was empty, and he was alone, it was no longer silent. Whisperings and flutterings of wings, and when Credence chanced a look towards the mirrors, he saw the blackness seeping out onto the floor, and when he caught sight of himself, he could see blood dripping down his back, as blackness sprouted from his shoulders, he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. When he turned to look at himself, he saw only spots of blood soaking into the tan color of his leotard, and he winced. That wouldn’t wash out easily, and he couldn’t bleach it. What was he going to do?

“Barebone… Credence, can you hear me?”

Soft, warm, and strong fingers pressed against his face, cupping his cheek, forcing him gently to look up, away from his wounds to find Director Graves in front of him, a big white case in his other hand, and a frown making his heavy brows meet.

“Sir…”

“I’m going to need you to uh, let me undress you a little bit. Just enough to be able to clean the cuts on your shoulders, and your back, okay?”

Credence nodded, nearly feeling numb, as the pain was brought to the forefront, and he barely felt the man touching him, as the hands over him were clinical, never lingering, and grazing, even the sting of antiseptic didn’t bother him.

It was only when the man was pressing bandages onto his back and shoulders, then tugging his leotard back over the areas, that he blinked, and focused on the fact that the director was sitting next to him, taking care of him, instead of yelling at him, or worse, hitting him with his cane for being so stupid.

“How often does this happen?”

He shook his head, and moved away to stand the instant the man let go of him, only to stumble to the floor again, legs weak, and mind fuzzy.

“Hey, hey, wait. You can’t just leave.”

“I need to get home. Mother will be worried about me, if I’m late.”

“Credence. This is serious. If your mother hurt you just because you were classed as an understudy, couldn’t you explain-”

“No sir. No. I’m a failure. Now you see me as she does.”

“Stop.”

The man was standing in front of him, a firm hand extended, and Credence gulped, staring at it a moment, before reluctantly accepting it, allowing himself to be pulled back up, only to falter on his first step. Why was he so dizzy and tired?

Strong arms bracketed around his waist, and he barely suppressed a shudder, as he felt himself pressed into hard unyielding muscle, bracing himself up with his hands on the man’s chest, he found they were very, very close.

“Sir, I need to-”

“You need to be more careful. Eat something. You look as if you’d blow away with a stiff breeze, Barebone.”

A hand grasped his waist properly for a moment, before sliding around and down, centering at his lower back, sparks lighting under Credence’s skin from the forbidden contact. The man was so close to touching him where he’d dared to abuse himself.

“Did you do your homework at least?”

The man was asking, lips brushing over his skin, right below his ear, and Credence stiffened, blood turning south suddenly.

“Y-yes sir.”

“Good. I’m glad. I am very sorry you had to be hurt for not getting a part. The fault lies with me, I’m afraid. Consider yourself recast. You’ll be perfect as the dark sorcerer. Won’t you?”

One of the hands from his waist lifted to stroke his cheek, and up to his hair, carding through it, and Credence’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he relaxed into the comforting touch.

“Thank you sir.”

“All right then. Off you go. Tell your mother the good news.”

Credence nodded.

He managed to make it to the bus stop, when he heard his name being called again, and he turned to find Director Graves approaching, walking over to a shiny black sedan parked in the street,

“Sir?”

“Don’t hesitate to tell me if she does that again. If you need a place to stay, I’ve got a room for rent.”

Credence could feel his cheeks heating again, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, for the longer he looked, he swore the man had a curl of smoke following him as he climbed into his car, but he smiled then, and it made his heart skip a beat.

“Okay.”

Surely the man hadn’t been able to hear him, as he walked into the bus, he wondered, if he could possibly mean it.

That evening he got home, and ma wasn’t there yet. He fixed himself a plate from the leftover chicken salad, and drank water with the meal. His eyelids grew heavy a few minutes to ten, and he went to lay down, mindful that he could not touch himself, or she would know, and instead fell into a fitful sleep.

There was blood everywhere, on his hands, on the ground, and he thought he could even taste it. Perhaps it was hazard of being an evil wizard, and cursing pretty white haired princesses came with the territory. The next thing he knew, he’d slipped on a smear of blood on the stage, and fallen, staring up at thousands and thousands of black feathers sinking to the ground around him. He was crying, but there was no one to hear him, much less wipe away his tears kindly like Director Graves had done.

When Credence woke, he found he wasn’t alone, ma was in the room, sleeping in the chair beside his bed, belt clutched in hand, as if she planned to beat him after she woke up. He shivered, and turned over, trying to fall back asleep for a few more fitful moments.

 

The next few weeks of rehearsals passed as quickly as could be, and Credence thought he felt himself getting weaker and weaker, but he ate regularly, and ma sent him off to practice with a fresh carafe of coffee every morning to ensure he was alert.

It didn’t help.

When it came time to be fitted for the costumes, Director Graves remarked that it would need to be taken in for him, at least two inches on each side, and he could feel his cheeks heating from the notice the man had taken.

The dreams didn’t get any better, and in fact, seemed to be getting worse and worse. More blood, more death, more sexual and confusing. He woke up one morning to damp sheets, and the realization that he’d somehow come in his sleep, while dreaming of the man putting his mouth to his cock, even while drenched in blood and covered in black feathers, it had somehow aroused him unconsciously. He didn’t even argue when ma held out her hand for his belt, which he’d taken to wearing to keep his trousers from falling down his slim hips when at home. He knew he’d disobeyed her, unwillingly or not.

Dress rehearsal night arrived, and Credence was at practice even earlier than usual, having barely slept a couple hours the night before, putting great swathes of black and red makeup on his face, hoping to hide the bruising under his ridiculous attire for his costume, and he managed a runthrough of the show without tripping once, guided by a steady hand of the Director’s when he would pass by, shouting instruction, and final pointers.

Credence was sweating heavily under the bright stage lights, and it wasn’t until he stepped off, and returned to remove his costume, that he noticed the black and red on his face had smeared down his neck, and was staining his under leotard.

He was going to be in so much trouble.

“Barebone. Good work tonight. Excellent form… are you alright? What’s that?”

“It’s nothing sir. Just a bruise from the barre.”

“Stop it. Don’t lie to me.”

Credence squeezed his eyes shut, and braced himself on the makeup table, shaking his head.

“Sir, please. I can’t talk about this with you. It’s not your place to interfere in family matters.”

He was parroting what his ma had told him, and it tasted foul even to him, for when a man like Director Graves wanted to help, he should let him.

He wanted to, desperately.

“Credence…”

His name was like a prayer, a balm soothing his soul, dropping from the man’s lips, and when warmth seeping into him, through the thin fabric of his leotard, searing into his abdomen, he shuddered, and his resolve crumbled. The man was embracing him, arms wrapping around his slim form, and holding him close.

“I don’t know what to do…”

“Just let me take care of you.”

Before he knew what was happening the man was pulling him into his arms, carrying his weak and exhausted form to the locker rooms, and helping him out of his leotard and tights, and gently walking him into a shower stall.

“Call for me when you’re ready to dry off, okay?”

Credence nearly moaned at the feeling of hot water pounding into his sore muscles, as ma had made him take cold showers ever since the morning she’d caught him self abusing.

“What happens after that sir?”

“I’m taking you home, for a proper meal.”

He opened his mouth to protest that he was fed plenty at his home, with his loving ma, who cared about him, it was why she was so hard on him, but his throat closed up, and he just nodded.

By the time the water began to run cold, Credence had sunk to his knees, and was just resting his forehead against the shower wall, letting the water hit the back of his neck like a cool rain.

“Dear boy, come out now. You’ll get sick if you keep that up.”

Director Graves ushered him up and out, and was toweling him off almost roughly, until he reached his groin, and then he simply patted the towel around him, and Credence was far too tired to be embarrassed that he was half hard.

“Here’s your clothing.”

Comfortable sweats and a threadbare white shirt that was almost see through. He didn’t even need shoes as the man picked him up and carried him out to his car.

The drive wasn’t very long, and he barely noticed when they stopped, until the man was pulling him into his arms again, and helping him up a set of stairs.

“Home sweet home.”

It smelled like smoke, and pine needles. Like a fireplace burning inside a log cabin, hidden away in a forest. The idea appealed to Credence very much, the thought of running away with the man, to continue the constant comforting touches, and maybe he would even end up stealing a kiss.

“Is soup okay? It’s got meatballs in it, and spinach too. Just the sort of thing you need.”

Credence nodded, his head just resting on one of his hands, as he watched the man move about his kitchen, cooking for them both.

“Why are you doing this?”

“What’s that?”

Credence hadn’t meant to mumble, and he braced for a slap for his rudeness, but it never came, instead, Director Graves came over to sit beside him, two steaming bowls of something that smelled delicious in hand.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Go on, try the soup. Well Credence, I must admit, even without your name recognition, I would have kept an eye on you. You see, you’re beautiful, a fragile thing that has no idea how enchanting he is. I select the students to graduate with honors, and I evaluate other classes to move forward. I hope you know, I’d like you to join me in Paris for the summer training camp.”

Credence blinked over at the man in shock,

“But… sir, I’m not even that good. I still have two years left at the academy.”

“Nonsense. If I say you’re ready to move on, you are.”

“Sir-”

Blinking was all he could do when the man leaned forward, and closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to Credence’s own, tasting faintly of bitter liquor, scotch perhaps, and the sweetness of the tomato base of the soup.

“I apologize… I shouldn’t have done that. I’m afraid you must know, I’ve grown a bit fond of you. Since you nearly fainted in my classroom, from your tumultuous home life, I feel somewhat responsible for you.”

A hand cupped his cheek again, and Credence felt tears stinging his eyes,

“You can’t protect me.”

“No. But I still want to.”

After they finished eating the somewhat simple soup that was still better than anything ma had ever made him, Director Graves helped him over to sit on the couch, to warm himself further in front of the fire. The man didn’t move very far away, but he kept his distance from touching Credence, perhaps afraid to scare him off, or further influence him to do something that would be wrong.

Though he appreciated the man’s efforts, he craved it, and ached for it. He’d get beaten within an inch of his life upon returning home, he knew, but he wanted so much to feel the man over him, around him, even, inside him.

He had no idea how to go about it, asking for what he wanted, even when it was so close within his reach.

“Credence, you know you don’t have to go home tonight. You can sleep in my spare room if you would like. The show is tomorrow, and I know a good night’s sleep will do you well.”

“Thank you sir, but I need to be getting home. My mother will worry.”

He got to his feet, fisting his hands at his sides, and made for the door, heart pounding, as his mind raced. He was running away from the man, because he was a coward.

“Wait.”

One of the man’s hands shot out to grab his slender wrist, and he stopped at once.

“Please, don’t just leave. I want you to stay.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t.

The man tugged him close, and he nearly fell into his lap, bracing his palms against the man’s chest, and breathing hard suddenly.

“I have to go-”

A hand slid up to cradle the back of his head, and pull him in close, as Director Graves kissed him so fiercely he wondered if his heart might bleed from how deeply he felt it.

He moaned after a moment, for he could feel the man hardening beneath him, and the looseness of his clothing meant without much effort, the man’s hand could dip below the waistband and press over his aching cock.

He ground his hips down mindlessly, and felt the man shuddering against him.

“Credence, Credence, my sublime sorcerer… you’ve bewitched me. Body and soul.”

The man was kissing down the side of his neck, his skin was aflame from every touch, and Credence wanted to cry out, to beg him to stop, or maybe never, as fingers wrapped around his cock, and he only moved a couple more times, before he was gone, falling into bliss, spilling into his sweats and over the man’s hand.

“Sir… I’m sorry, I’ve made a mess of you…”

He could hardly speak much less think about anything, and when the man shook his head, and leaned in to kiss him again, he could feel his hips lifting up, mimicking how it might feel if he was driving his cock into Credence.

“Not at all. You’ve given me a gift.”

“Should I…?”

He slid a hand down the man’s chest, and pathetically pawed at his groin, breath catching in his throat at the thick hardness he could feel trapped in the man’s pants.

“If you want… I’m not going to object.”

Credence fell to his knees, heart pounding the whole way. It wasn’t exactly like he imagined it in his mind, and it was different in so many ways, better, not cold and detached like fantasies were, with the warmth of the fire at his back, and one of the man’s hands gentle in his hair, as he reached up to undo the zip and button, and freed the man’s cock to emerge from his pants.

“You could probably make me come from just staring, if you did it long enough.”

The man teased, and Credence flushed, leaning forward to put his mouth on it at once, feeling foolish but doing his best to imitate what he’d heard men liked.

Going off of the director’s reactions, he was very much enjoying it, though after a few moments, Credence was beginning to feel light headed, and his knees went numb beneath him.

“Hey… are you okay?”

The man’s hand petting his face brought him back, and he realized he’d dozed off a moment, one hand still wrapped around the man’s now somewhat softened length, and his cheek pressed up against the man’s inner thigh.

“Oh. Yes. Sorry sir.”

He moved to get back to work, but the hand in his hair tightened slightly, and pulled him back off.

“Whoa. You don’t get to pass out sucking my dick and act like everything’s fine. You look pale as a ghost. You need to lay down.”

Credence shook his head, but his eyelids were fighting to stay open again.

“Please sir…”

“Come on. Up you get.”

Credence barely noticed the man tucking himself away, and then kneeling to sweep him off his feet, holding him right against his chest, until he was being let go again, and tucked into a soft bed.

He could have cried from how comfortable it felt, and he did. A hand stroked his forehead, and wiped away his tears until he fell asleep.

A sharp pain in his abdomen woke him, and he knew it had something to do with the food he’d eaten, or rather, not eaten. The room was silvery from the light of the moon, and Credence knew he had to leave immediately, and hurry home, and maybe beg for ma’s forgiveness.

He was able to sneak inside the front door, but he nearly fell over when he realized that ma was sitting in the kitchen, looking extremely disappointed with him.

“Credence, do you know what time it is?”

“Late.”

“Where have you been?”

The truth wouldn’t be believable. Plus it would sound bad.

“I got lost.”

“Sit down.”

She wasn’t going to beat him?

He did, gingerly, watching as she got up and poured him a mug of coffee, and set a freshly baked miniature loaf of bread beside it. It smelled like fruit.

“Banana bread. It’s for good luck for the show tonight.”

“You remembered?”

“Of course you idiot child. I’m coming to see you, so you’d better be perfect.”

“Yes mother.”

The coffee goes down more bitter than it ever had, and while he might not get beaten that morning, the threat of it hovers, so he goes to shower, and change, and when it was time, she drove him to the academy in the afternoon. Credence finds himself praying that he won’t run into Director Graves before the show, as he doesn’t know how to say he’s sorry for running or how to explain that whatever the man said about Paris, just cannot happen.

He smeared on his red and black makeup without much reason or thought, merely because he was in far too much pain to do better, but not on the outside. It felt like his stomach was trying to eat itself, and he bite his lip to keep from crying out.

Blood, was visible everywhere around him, and darkness was fighting to claw its way out of him.

Credence longed for nothing more than a way out.

Through some miracle, he made it through the show, and finished with a flourish, before the monster destroyed him. He acted out the part when the prince stabbed him, and imagined a pool of blood surrounding him, and when he fell back against the mattress meant to catch him, he found himself blinking up at the ceiling.

“Credence? Credence talk to me. Your nose is bleeding.”

His vision blurred, and then Director Graves came into view, looking concerned.

“I was perfect wasn’t I? I was perfect.”

“Yes, your performance was wonderful. But you’re hurt.”

He shook his head.

“I’m just dying. It’s time.”

“Wha-? for christs sake, someone call an ambulance!”

That was the last thing he heard before his eyes closed, and everything went silent.

 

* * *

 

Percival had never seen anything like it, in all his years teaching ballet with Macusa, the inner strength, beauty and grace that Credence Barebone possessed in one finger, outweighed all the class that his mother had pretended to have in her entire career as prima ballerina.

 

The authorities said she’d been off her medication for almost three years, and yet still continued to fill prescriptions and pick them up. Where had all the drugs gone? Into Credence.

Upon having his blood tested in the hospital, he was found to have heavy concentrations of the active ingredients of Prozac, along with a few other things he didn’t recognize the names of, but they induced hallucinations, paranoia, and often, mild to severe sleep disorders.

Credence looked so small and fragile on the hospital bed, wrapped in white, and being treated with several different things, including a transfusion of vitamins and minerals he’d been heavily lacking for so many long months.

Crass as it was, the idea ran through his mind that if only Credence had been able to go through with blowing him, he might have been a touch better off. Still, Percival sat by his bedside as much as he could, coming over first thing after classes ended, and sometimes, if the nice night nurse was on, he would sleep in the chair and wake up to kiss the boy on the forehead, before taking his morning coffee at his side.

It was a heart wrenching week before Credence was well enough to be pulled out of his medically induced sleep, and even then, he was told it would be preferable to keep an eye on him for another few days.

“He’ll be safe with me. I’ve gotten the next weekend off. I’ll be home to wait on him hand and foot.”

The talk about Paris, and interning, working with him, he’d meant every word, but just gone about explaining it the wrong way, hushed, half under his breath, and with the boy sitting in his lap, all rational thought had left him.

When they brought Credence out to the front, in a wheelchair, to be encouraged to walk the final couple steps to his car. 

“Hey there.”

“Hello Mister Director.”

Credence was coming off of severe medication, bound to be a little loopy, Percival supposed. When the boy swooned into his arms, he wondered how much of that was real.

“Ooof. Careful now. In you get.”

 

Once settled in, Percival took a step back, from where he’d helped Credence curl up on his couch, propped on a pillow and tucked into a blanket, and he cleared his throat.

“Would you like some tea, or a bit to eat?”

Credence blinked over at him,

“You’re not really used to playing host are you?”

His voice was still croaky, sounded a bit rough from disuse, and Percival smiled,

“You might be right.”

“Thank you sir. I don’t know where I would go if you hadn’t offered to take me in.”

“Credence… I’m glad to be able to help. I feel like I can’t apologize enough for how hard I was on you. Undeservedly. If I had any idea what you were going through… I never would have.”

Percival couldn’t help touching him, running a hand through Credence’s hair, pausing to drag his fingers along that sharp jawline.

When the boy’s eyelashes fluttered shut, and he leaned into his hand, Percival got minorly distracted, enough to kneel onto the couch, move in close enough to barely veer back on the reins and just kiss the boy on his forehead.

“Get some rest. I’ll order something for us to eat later, hmm?”

Credence nodded, and relaxed back on the couch, snuggling into the blanket, and Percival tried not to look at him like he’d hung the moon.

But it was far too late for that.

He’d gone and given a piece of his heart to the boy, though he knew it was in good hands, it was still a scary thing to come to terms with.

 

* * *

 

**END**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> smut lite* because im working on something thats gonna be horribly filthy so i gotta save up my energy.


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